


The One With The Birthday Cake

by elim_garak



Category: Homeland
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 14:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13789746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elim_garak/pseuds/elim_garak
Summary: Franny is turning six years old. On a dare (we really don't know who was THAT dumb), Carrie decides to make the cake on her own. Max gets her one of them 'no-fail' recipes. It's easy enough. Carrie makes some 'improvments' and has some 'ideas'. The rest is a fairly silly story about love and making the perfect chocolate cake.Fair warning, it's not exactly a sequel, but it's a part of "A Broken Cup" AU, taking place about two and a half years after Berlin. So, no, Carrie and Quinn are not together. Quinn's blissfully married, studying engineering at MIT, delusionally happy to be a father to his son (two sons now) and... well... more.Yeah I know... I'm kinda hopeless. But I do write it with all the love in the world. For all of them.  I swear!Love and kisses, Frangs! Happy Birthday!!!





	The One With The Birthday Cake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FrangipaniFlower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrangipaniFlower/gifts).



Carrie closes the oven door and wipes her hands on the kitchen towel. Catching Max’s skeptical look on her, she rolls her eyes and props her palms on her hips.

“What?” she snaps, picking up a dripping whisk. “Say a _word_ , please, make my _fucking_ day.”

Max is less worried about the prospect of being smacked with baking appliances than he is about the end result of what started as a dare and is quickly becoming the worst birthday cake fiasco in the history of… well, birthday cake fiascos.

“We have a backup plan?” he inquires cautiously.

“We don’t _need_ a backup plan. I can make a fucking birthday cake.”

“Uh-huh,” deep in thought, Max seems unconvinced. The recipe he found for her _did_ claim to be a ‘no-fail’, but then Carrie had some ‘ideas’... to make it even ‘better’... _We’re fucked_. “I think the Daisy’s is still open. They can probably stop by on their way and pick up something nice… you know… just in case.”

“Just in case _what_?” Carrie steps closer, her eyes narrowing.

The sound of the doorbell makes them both turn their heads. _Saved by the bell_ , Carrie thinks, dropping the whisk in the sink and untying her kitchen apron. _Now we’re REALLY fucked_.

There’s a loud thumping sound of feet against the floor, originating somewhere in the general direction of Franny’s room, accompanied by a deafening shriek “JJ’s here!!!” and a flash of auburn, as the Birthday Girl flies across the apartment to the door.

“It could be Maggie and the girls,” Carrie yells, thinking about her ‘cake’ and seriously hoping it’s _not_.

But then she hears a familiar voice coming from the hallway, a delighted laughter, a soft baby babbling, and she knows her daughter's heart is never wrong.

“You brought Oli!!!” Franny exclaims, shrieking even louder. “Can I hold him? Please-please-please???”

“Sure, Fran. Just let me change him and get his bottle ready. He’s been cranky the whole ride over.” Shaking his trenched umbrella and taking Johnny’s as well, Quinn sets the baby bag on the stand by the door. He crouches down carefully, one hand holding his eleven-month old son and the other one balancing on his knee, and opens an arm for the Birthday Girl, who leaps right in, not needing another invitation. “Happy Birthday, sweetie.”

Snuggling closer and beaming with joy, Franny nods against his shoulder, giggles at being tickled by loud kisses all over her face, then turns her attention to her _new favorite Quinn_. Oliver doesn’t seem to be cranky at all. Within seconds his tiny hands are grabbing her curls as he starts making his adorable happy cooing noises.

Smiling, Quinn shakes his head at him. “You shameless cute little motherf…” He stops, remembering his promise to Carrie to minimize Franny’s exposure to ‘Quinnish’. _And_ the fact that Oliver is about to start talking.

Franny snorts. Pfft. It’s not like she didn’t know what he was about to say. It’s not like her _mother_ doesn’t say it. But she’s not about to start another argument about it _now_.

She feels a tap on her shoulder and looks up. Oh, right. _That’s_ her favorite Quinn. Almost knocking Peter and Oliver to the floor, she jumps up and leaps into Johnny’s arms, squeezing his waist between hers. He’s almost eleven years old now and nearly five feet tall.

With a mysterious grin, Johnny manages to dig into his pocket and fish out a flashdrive. Winking, he holds it in front of her beaming face. Franny’s jaw drops.

“You _didn’t_!!!!!!!”

“Happy B-day, Capt’n.”

“The _new one_?”

“Yep. Pretty good quality, too. Took me like three days to find it.”

He barely manages to finish the sentence and Franny is already pulling him into the living room, where they can _finally_ watch the new Star Wars movie. It’s a pact they’d made about a year ago - no matter how many more Star Wars movies there are, neither of them is allowed to watch alone.

“Were you downloading torrents again???” Johnny’s father’s discontented voice follows.

“Um… _no_ . Well, yes. _Max_ was. Don’t worry, we had our gateway masked.” Fully knowing his dad has _no_ idea what that means.

“Right. When the FBI comes knocking on our door, that’s what I’ll tell them.”

“Dad, it’s _fine_. Max knows what he’s doing.”

 _Fucking Max_ . Shooting a menacing look in his friend’s direction, Peter stands up. Max has a bad feeling about this. He can take Carrie and her cake-batter-dripping whisk. He’s not sure he can take _Quinn_. Even with his dorky glasses and nerdy MIT look. Even with the baby in his arms. Even given the fact that his wife is the only one in the family carrying a gun. The man still gives him the creeps.

“Hey, where’s your other Quinn-and-a-half?” Carrie comes closer, giving Quinn a peck on a cheek and kissing Oliver’s fluffy dark hair.

“Making an arrest. Should be here in two hours.”

“Oh, good. The cake should be ready by then.”

Quinn arches a skeptical brow. “ _You’re_ making a cake?”

“Hey! I’m _also_ still carrying a _gun_.”

“Ok, _ok_ ,” laughing, he raises his baby-free hand in a surrendering gesture. “But you can see how it makes me worry, right?”

“Fuck _you_ , Quinn. Give me my godson and get lost.” Before he has a chance to react, Carrie snatches Oliver from his arms. She bounces the baby next to her chest. “ _You_ have faith in me, right? Your _daddy_ used to. Now he’s just a pain in the ass. _And_ a nerd.” Oliver babbles something happy and incoherent, grabbing a strand of her hair and grinning.

“Hey! You wanna take down a terrorist ring - I’ve got your back. With baked goods…? Do we at least have a backup plan?”

Carrie shoots him a scorning look. “You keep talking and you’ll need an _extraction_ plan.”

“ _Fine_ .” Too tired to object and fully knowing how any argument will go at this point, Quinn plants a soft kiss on his son’s head and hands her the baby bag. “He needs to be changed. _And_ fed. Knock yourself out.”

Carrie’s already walking up the stairs, laughing as Oliver’s little hands pat her face and try to get into her mouth.

Max elbows Quinn in the ribs and hands him a shot of whiskey.

“You look like you need it.”

Between part time job, full time semester, eleven-month old baby, five-month pregnant wife and, apparently, a hacker for a son - he _fucking does_.

“Thinking about getting out?” Max snorts, watching him down the whiskey and point with his finger for a refill.

“Only when I’m thinking about an exam in quantum mechanics in three months.” Quinn grins. Then follows Max’s worried stare in the kitchen direction. “So… how bad are we talking?”

Max scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Oh, _believe_ me, it’s _bad.._. Wanna run a diversion while I sneak out and get a cake?”

“And by diversion you mean…”

“I’m sorry, you’re asking _me_?”

“Max, the only kind of diversion _I_ can think of requires ingredients that I _hope_ Carrie doesn’t have lying around.”

They walk into the kitchen and Max points to the oven. “Been sitting in there for over  fifteen minutes now. It’s not rising.”

Quinn moves his mouth from side to side. “I’m guessing… that’s _not_ good?”

“Again… you’re asking _me_? I’m tech support, not Martha-fucking-Stewart.”

“Hey, nice McCoy!”

Max shakes his head, unable to hold a smile. “I see you finally got to the Original Series,” referring to Quinn’s ongoing Star Trek education. “We should fit _you_ with one of those. Like… _‘Hey, I’m a government trained assassin, goddamnit, not a…’_ fill in the blank.”

“I can fucking _fill in the blank_ , alright.” Smiling in delight, Quinn thinks about all the things he had to become in the past two and a half years. Then looks back into the oven. “You have a _different_ plan? ‘Cause once Carrie finds out we bought a cake because she screwed up this one, we’re dead meat.”

Max shrugs. “We could make a new one…”

“Uh-huh…”

“No, seriously, if we keep her out of the kitchen long enough…”

Quinn sighs, shaking his head. Then takes out his phone.

-In the kitchen. Need your help. Come alone

Within ten seconds Johnny and Franny stand in the door.

“I said _alone_ ,” Quinn grins at his son.

Johnny puts an arm around Franny’s shoulders and raises an eyebrow, giving his father a calm defiant stare.

Max cracks up. “See, I _know_ this look. Quinn family trait. Called _‘Don’t fuck with my Mathison’_.”

Disregarding Max, Quinn smiles and waves the kids in. The plan is simple: under no circumstances are they to let Carrie walk into the kitchen until told otherwise.

“Dad…” Johnny is skeptical. It gets worse when he sees Max opening the flour bag and pouring measured cups into a new mixing bowl. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me... “

Franny tags on his sleeve. “C’mon! It’ll be fun! Like a _diversion_!” She’s beaming with excitement.

“Have you _met_ your mother?” Johnny quips, smiling down at her.

Franny just giggles and makes a cute begging face. “Pleeeaasseeeeee…”

Johnny lets out an exasperated sigh.  He’s fucked and he knows it. “Fine.” Then steals a look at his father. “One hour. And you _owe_ me.”

Quinn throws an arm around his son’s neck and pulls him in for a long ringing kiss on the head. “I owe you, alright,” he laughs, then bends down and kisses Franny’s smiling face too. “Thanks, Birthday bug.”

When the kids run off, Max shakes his head. “Whipped unto the second generation.”

“Hey, the _un-whipped_ one… wanna be the one who gets to tell Carrie her birthday cake looks like an Iraqi pita bread? No? Then _shut the fuck up_.”

Max nods, laughing. Then looks into the mixing bowl. “How many cups do we need?”

“Huh?”

“The _flour…_ how many cups?”

“You don’t _know_???”

Max is about to fetch his phone to find that ‘no-fail’ recipe again, when Quinn stops him. “Hold on.”

He fetches his own phone and starts typing.

“Who you messaging?”

Quinn grins. “Happen to be married to _Martha-fucking-Stewart_.”

-Jule, can you send me your birthday cake recipe?

-??? I thought Maggie was making one

-Apparently, no. Carrie is

-Say what???

-I KNOW. It’s been in the oven for like half an hour. Not rising. Bad sign. Right?

-Jesus… RIGHT. Take it out. NOW

-Ok. The recipe?

-Give me five. Almost done here

-Sure. Thanks

-Hey, who’s gonna bake it?

-Max and I

-Say what???

-Hey, I can make a cake!

-Bullshit. The only dry and wet ingredients you EVER mixed were potassium chlorate and water

-Water??? PROMISE ME you’ll never make a pipe bomb on your own. PLEASE

-Sure, if you promise me to stay away from Carrie’s kitchen

Laughing, he dials. “Seriously, it’s kind of an emergency here. If you give us detailed instructions, Franny might actually end up with a birthday cake.”

Julia can hear him fussing with the oven and dropping what sounds like a baking sheet on the counter. “Uh-huh, because having _you_ in the kitchen increases those odds _astronomically_.”

Quinn sighs, smiling. “Hey, you think I don’t know that??? But we’re _seriously_ fucked here.”

“Fine. Sending now. I’m on my way soon. You guys need me to pick up anything?”

“Nah, we’re good. Just drive safely. It’s raining cats and dogs outside. You feeling better?”

“Peter, I’ve been on my feet since the morning, I’m five months pregnant with a double kinder-surprise, my ankles are swollen, I just had to punch a two hundred pound guy in the nose before shoving him into a holding cell… And I’ve been craving a good chocolate cake since the morning, only to realize just now that I might not _get_ one. What do _you_ think?”

And that’s how he knows he’ll make that cake or die trying. “You’ll get one, silly. I promise.”

“Oh, I know.” He can hear a sly smile in her voice. She knows all of his buttons, where they are and how to push them. She’ll have her cake. And _then_ some. “Sending you the recipe now. See you guys soon. Is Oli behaving?”

“He _better_ be. Carrie has him now. He’s fucked if he fusses.”

Julia laughs. “Tell her if she manages to put him to sleep by eight, in four months she’s officially hired as a nanny for two more. Hi to Max. Miss you.”

“Miss you more,” he stops her before she can give him her usual speech about it not being possible, seeing how there’s _three_ of them and just one of _him_ . “Hey, there are…” he counts in his head, “... _six_ of us here. And we _all_ miss you. So, shut the fuck up and get your ass over here.”

 

*

 

An hour later the kitchen is squeaky clean, all the evidence of the biggest operation in the CIA history has been promptly destroyed or thrown away, and Carrie is standing proudly over what appears to be her best achievement to date. She’s doing the finishing touches on the chocolate glazing, going over and over the same parts, then moving farther away to see if it’s smooth enough, and working on it some more with a dedication of a true Mathison. And by ‘Mathison’, she means her OCD, of course.

“Perfect,” she exclaims finally and holds out her hand.

“Yep.” Quinn nods and hands her the candles.

“ _Told_ you!”

“You _did_.”

“I can make a cake!”

“Yep.”

“And you were _wrong_.”

“I was wrong.”

Carrie catches his smiling stare and squints her eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.” He points to the cake with two candles sticking out. “We’re gonna need four more.”

“Quinn…” Carrie turns all the way towards him and crosses her arms on her chest.

“Yeah?”

“Quinn!”

“What? Franny’s six, right?”

“You _motherfucker_!”

Carrie looks around. The kitchen is way too clean, the dishwasher is conveniently on already so she can’t see if they used any more dishes, and, what’s more, Quinn’s _way_ too agreeable.

“That’s not _my_ cake, is it?” Her hands slide to her hips.

“Nope. Franny’s.”

“I swear to God, Quinn…”

“Oh, fuck it.” Heaving a long frustrated sigh, he steps on the trash can pedal. There, sad, cracked and slightly burned, rests the original attempt at Franny’s birthday cake. “It died for its country. I _think_. Should we put a star on the wall or something?”

Carrie bursts into laughter first. “Oh, God, I’m good for nothing, am I?”

Wiping the sides of the glazing bowl and sticking a finger in his mouth, Quinn gives her a smirk of a stare. “You’re good for _this_.”

She snorts, looking fairly smug and full of herself. “Yeah! I made _that_ ! On my _own_!”

The doorbell rings again. Carrie raises a finger to Quinn’s face. “You breathe _one word_ of _any of this_ to Maggie, and so help me God…”

Quinn’s eyes crinkle in a mischievous delight. “You tell me how you manage to put Oliver to sleep at eight _every-fucking-time_ , and you got yourself a deal.”

“Pfft…Easy: he’s a Quinn, I’m a Mathison. I say go to sleep - he does.” Her joyful bright smile turns cheeky.

Quinn crosses his arms on his chest. “Huh...That so?”

“Yep. It’s my _superpower_.”

Quinn laughs: she’s not wrong - at least nine out of ten times it works, too. He takes the remaining candles out of her hand and sticks them into the cake.

“There. Done.”

Carrie looks down at her daughter's perfectly shaped, perfectly risen, perfectly chocolate and perfectly glazed birthday cake.

“And you just saved my ass… _again_.”

Quinn puts and arm around her and draws her in for a long kiss on the top of her head.

“That’s _my_ superpower, Carrie,” he smiles into her hair. “Got your back. Always.”


End file.
